


Caring and Other Mysteries

by Meretricious (MrsSaxon)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, M/M, Self-Destructive, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsSaxon/pseuds/Meretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sociopaths are not always safe and doctors can't abide someone in pain.</p><p><span class="small">Warning: Sherlock!whump (first chapter only)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring and Other Mysteries

  
Chapter 1: The Smell of Bagels   


At first it was nothing. The odd cut on his face, shaving accident, happens to everyone. A faint bruise on his hand, he bumped into something, won’t happen again.

John Watson didn’t think much of his flatmate’s injuries, it was nice to know that even the great Sherlock Holmes made mistakes; it was nice to know he was still human.

But when brushing past one day, accidentally bumping hips and Sherlock nearly yelping in pain he really began to worry and now he noticed more and more. How Sherlock sat down gingerly, if he sat at all, how his jaw looked ever so slightly swollen, and he was wearing gloves more often than was normal, even for Sherlock.

Nothing dramatic had changed, you had to really know Sherlock to notice, not even Lestrade paid any attention when Sherlock closed his fist in anger, only to wince, opening it again. Maybe it was Watson’s instincts as a doctor, maybe it was something more, but he knew something was wrong with Sherlock and he had to find out what.

The thing was though, you couldn’t just ask Sherlock a straight question, he’d have to take a page out of Mycroft’s book and observe him closely with near stalker-ish tenacity. Without letting Sherlock know he was watching him, of course. Sure. Easy as pie.

It wasn’t until a month later that John finally discovered the truth. He’d come home early from the hospital, anxious to watch over Sherlock, as usual, but stepping through the front door he was met with a blood-curdling nightmare. Sherlock was there alright. Eyebrow cut, nose smashed, lips torn and bleeding, his knuckles appeared bloodied to the bone and there was a very worrying black bruise on his chest, visible through his torn open shirt.

Without hesitating he sprang into action, dragging Sherlock to the bathroom to clean everything up and hope that his ribs weren’t cracked. As much as John was ready to pummel to death whoever had beaten Sherlock up like this, and as much as he wanted to yell at Sherlock for being so foolish as to not let John watch over him constantly so exactly this didn’t happen, he had to wait. Sherlock needed immediate medical care from a doctor, not a lecture from his besotted flatmate.

“Was different t’night… s’more of them…” John realized he was muttering.

“Hush, you’ve got a split lip, don’t try to talk,” he ran a washcloth over his face for the fifth time and it was still coming away pink, his eyebrow appeared to need stitches.

“Jooooooohn,” he croaked stubbornly, looking up at him with anguished eyes.

John swallowed hard and looked down at him, trying to keep the cool exterior of medical man in place, disguising the hot, beating heart of John Watson, couldn’t afford emotions just now.

Sherlock sighed, exhaling deeply when John finally met his eyes. Slowly, tenderly he picked up the hand without the washcloth and laid it against the side of his face, lowering his eyes to show he would submit to getting cleaned up and that he wanted John’s forgiveness for what he’d done. John knew outside of this room Sherlock would never ever admit he’d apologized, he’d go to his grave swearing against it, but this was still an apology and John didn’t have the heart to begrudge him.

Faintly he stroked his cheek, brushing his thumb against his skin gently, careful to avoid his bruises and cuts. This was the sign that Sherlock has his forgiveness, then he returned to bandaging him up.

He tried to convince Sherlock to go to the hospital to get his eyebrow stitched and his ribs examined, but Sherlock was adamant, threatening John that he would go without rest if he took him, and John knew he was perfectly capable of being a stubborn git about that, so he gave in and stitched Sherlock himself. He managed to talk Sherlock into going in to the hospital in a few days about his ribs though when he couldn’t stand up straight without a pained look crossing his face.

Once Sherlock was properly pampered, padded, bundled and made to drink a large cuppa, which John probably needed more than he did, John finally started in on the questions.

“So… are you going to tell me?”

Sherlock stared moodily at the carpet, “We’ll have to get new carpet, this one has blood on it now and bleaching it would ruin the colors.”

“Sherlock,” John glared, exhaling deeply.

Sherlock reluctantly looked up like a child that knows he’s about to be punished.

John sighed again and decided to start from the beginning, “Something’s been going on; you’ve been getting unexplained injuries for a MONTH now. You’re not clumsy, I’ve never seen you trip on anything, you know your way around the flat as you do most of the city so any innocuous table that leaped out and clobbered you to death is out of the question. So tell me, who did this to you?”

Sherlock smiled faintly, “I commend your observational skills John, you’re getting sharper –”

“Sherlock!” John hissed interrupting, refusing to let him get off topic.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit Sherlock, don’t lie –”

“I am _not_ ,” he glared back sharply, “I am not lying to you John, I don’t know who they were… tonight was different.”

“But you’ve done this before? You’ve gotten beaten up before, that’s right isn’t it?” John felt fury welling up inside him, but restrained it, he needed to know what happened before he starts cracking skulls.

Sherlock hesitated, a brief flicker in his clear blue eyes before nodding slightly, ashamed, because he knows John won’t be happy, he knows John expects better of him. He was horrified enough when he heard about the cocaine, “Yes. Yes it’s happened before… I sought it out…”

John glared tightly, “Is that it then? You’re a masochist and you can only get your kicks through pain?”

“No, of course not, don’t be so stupid. Have I ever appeared masochistic to you John? No, so it’s not about the pain. If anything surely you’d see I’d prefer administering it,” he smirked darkly; he knew what John thought, what everyone thought, about his riding crop. “Think harder… what is it I crave above all else?”

John frowned, a bit gobsmacked at this, but, like everything Sherlock said, no matter how mad, it made sense. Slowly he spoke, “You… don’t want to be bored?”

“Yes, exactly!” Sherlock’s voice was an urgent hiss, “Boredom, it’s anathema to my brain, I need to be constantly stimulated, constantly be forced to make the gears turn or they slow up and wallow in a fog of mediocrity. Do you think I could bear to be reduced to an… an Anderson?” He looked up at him, cringing.

John looked at him dryly, but not unsympathetically, “No, you’d make an unbearable Anderson.”

Sherlock’s split lip twitched in a small smile, “So, to combat boredom, to keep my intellect as swift as ever, I have to seek out stimulation,” he lowered his eyes a moment, “for years I embraced a cocaine addiction, made my mind run incredibly fast, everything became clear in the space of a moment,” he sighed, then looked up. “But Lestrade made me stop, go to rehab, the whole of it, so I made up for it with a much weaker, but not altogether useless substance, nicotine. It’s at least comforting… but it wasn’t enough.”

John’s gaze sharpened, a chill running very faintly down his spine, knowing what was coming next.

“I thought perhaps… when I met you, having someone to be in constant contact with, it would keep me on my toes… trouble is, you’re very easy to live with John,” he smiled faintly, voice softening and John couldn’t tell if it was to soften the backhanded compliment or if it was out of affection, “so I quickly became used to your habits and adapted to your presence. Growing increasingly worried, I checked with my resources to see if they had any tips for me, anything for that rush of adrenaline that makes the heart pound quicker, the mind reel faster… and so it started.”

Sherlock paused, swallowing, “We struck a deal. I go out, alone, no witnesses, no one to interfere,” his eyes flicked to John for a moment, then resolutely stared at the blank TV screen, “they jump me, I get off on the fear, the surprise… the danger… the attacker gets off on… well, the pain, obviously. But they were not animals John, they knew when to stop, they knew what injuries I could afford to have and make some plausible excuse for. And I wasn’t some masochistic rag doll who liked the pain. But tonight… they must have heard, or spied on us some night, when I was too caught up to notice… a group of them, merciless thugs. It was obvious they meant a great deal more than just enough pain for fight or flight to kick in. Fortunately, they stopped short of killing me because someone was walking down our way, so I dragged myself back to Baker Street… and there you found me.” He sighed and looked up at John, waiting for his verdict inscrutably, face blank of expression, eyes clear, not even the pain of his injuries making them tense.

John felt fury rising in him like bile in the back of his throat, he felt like throttling Sherlock for being so stupid about his own self-preservation, and the thugs for nearly destroying his flatmate, a man who they weren’t and would never be equals to. Sherlock was many things but being beaten to death was not on the list.

“This ends now,” he said tightly, eyes dark, “no buts Sherlock, you’ll get your high some other way, but not like this, not putting your physical self in danger. Do you have any idea how stupid you’ve been? Don’t you realize _you’ve almost died?_ ” John swallowed, realizing he was shouting, “ _I’ve_ almost died Sherlock. I know what it’s like. You don’t want to do it. Don’t EVER do something like this again.” Without another word, he grabbed his coat and swung out into the night air, intending not to come back until he was sure he wouldn’t kill Sherlock himself.

It wasn’t for some hours, when the shops of London were just waking and beginning their morning routines that John finally returned to 221B Baker Street. His hair was swept up and mussed from his walking, his nose was red from the chill, and the smell of warm bagels wafted very enticingly from the small paper bag in his hand. Sherlock also reluctantly noticed that mussed hair was quite becoming on John, much preferred over his usual militarily straightened style.

He’d curled up, cat-like, cracked ribs notwithstanding, on his favorite chair in John’s absence and stayed there, staring blankly at the door, deep in introspective thought. Why had John gotten so upset? It wasn’t as though HE was the one who had just died, and it seemed almost as if John was madder at him than he was at his attackers, which didn’t make any sense at all since John was so moralistic and keen to punish those who deserved it. But surely getting mad at him was victim-blaming?

No, no, it was more than that, it wasn’t tonight John was blaming him for. There was something hidden, locked away, something glass and unbreakable behind his eyes, behind the way he looked at him before he stormed out that was the reason he was angry. Why couldn’t he understand what it was? Why couldn’t it be something material, something identifiable, why was it so… fleeting. Sherlock was never good with emotions the way he was with physical reality. Probabilities he could do in his sleep, why a mother kissed her child when it came home from school was a real mystery.

“I um… I brought bagels… as an apology for yelling… thought you might be hungry,” John muttered sheepishly, pulling Sherlock out of his puzzlement.

“Mmmmmmm… yes, thank you,” Sherlock murmured in return, not moving to select one.

“Right…” John set the bagels on the table and shrugged off his coat, then moved into the kitchen, “Do you want tea? Did you sleep at all?” He frowned, knowing Sherlock, of course he hadn’t, but he really needed to.

“No, thank you,” he didn’t bother answering the second question. The glass behind his eyes wasn’t there anymore. Interesting, but also unbearably frustrating, how could he find out what it was if John wouldn’t show it to him?

“John,” he spoke up, not turn his head.

“Yeah?” John replied for the kitchen, filling the kettle.

“Why did you get so angry?”

“Why did I – WHAT?!” John spluttered, dropping the kettle, water spilling everywhere. He stuck his head back into the living room, “You _can’t_ be serious?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to him, “Why can’t I? I asked you a simple question, I was being perfectly serious.”

“But… Sherlock…” John groaned, massaging his forehead, closing his eyes, “Sherlock, let’s think deductively here…”

“Inductively, but go on.”

John sighed, “Inductively then, which is not your strong suit. Why might I have been angry to discover that for the past month you had slowly been taking physical abuse like a drug to get your adrenaline highs between cases? What _might_ make me angry about that?” John sat in the chair on the other side of the room, looking at him.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you,” Sherlock looked at him blankly, but his tone was slightly clipped, pride hurt that he had to admit he didn’t know something.

John sighed again, “Sherlock… you know you really should try to be a human being more often, you might learn something,” he exhaled wearily, deflating, rubbing the back of his neck for a moment to relax and attempt to explain to Sherlock what was painfully obvious to anyone else, “I was… am… angry because you were hurting yourself. Because you were willfully putting yourself in danger.”

Sherlock blinked, eyebrows quirking slightly, “But why would that make you angry? I didn’t hurt you, I didn’t offend you, I didn’t annoy you, why should you be angry because I’m hurt?”

John’s mouth dropped open before he could stop it, “You can’t… you aren’t… I can’t believe this…” He swallowed hard then cleared his throat, Sherlock waited patiently, sensing the explanation was close at hand, “Why does Mycroft worry about you Sherlock? Why does he try to bribe me to tell him things about you?”

“Because he’s my brother,” Sherlock scoffed, failing to see the connection.

“Yes, and…?” John waited expectantly, hoping Sherlock would see it.

“And what?” Sherlock pouted obstinately, getting upset that he couldn’t understand.

“And he cares about you! For god’s sake Sherlock, THAT’S why! That’s why I’M mad that you were trying to hurt yourself,” John huffed and there it was, the glass thing behind his eyes, for a split second before he turned away, back into the kitchen to finish making tea. And he finally recognized the glass thing for what it was.

“Oh…” he barely breathed. Oh, that was it… that’s what this was all about. “You… care about me… but why?”

John made an exasperated noise from the kitchen, “Sherlock haven’t YOU ever cared about anything? Anyone?”

Sherlock was silent, withdrawn.

“Of course it’s stupid to ask a sociopath that question, I mean, come on, let’s be –”

“Yes.”

“What…?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he hissed, eyes closed, head tilted back slightly, fingers steepled under his lips.

John stepped to the doorway of the kitchen, softly, “Who?”

Sherlock did not immediately respond, “When Moriarty said that it wasn’t quite true that I didn’t have a heart he was, unfortunately, correct, despite what many have told me otherwise.”

“Who, Sherlock?”

“You know now that we have this cleared up I think I’ll stretch my legs, been sitting like that all night,” Sherlock ignored him completely and sprang into action. Or rather tried to, his cracked ribs screaming at him after the single bound to get up.

John grabbed him before he could fall over, “C’mere, c’mere… I’ve got you… just sit back down, you’re not going anywhere,” he steered Sherlock back to his chair and wrapped him in a blanket.

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were trained unusually intensely on John.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me… you obviously don’t want to, but I wish you would,” John sighed, “do me one thing though, just sit there while I make tea and don’t move.”

Sherlock’s eyes followed him until he was out of sight.

“ _Thank you, John._ ”


End file.
